


I fold in half so easily

by aphrodite_mine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Academia, F/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:02:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Alana and Hannibal meet unexpectedly away from home, and Alana begins to see Dr. Lecter as human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I fold in half so easily

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TaffySinclair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaffySinclair/gifts).



“Doctor Bloom.”

The words, crisply spoken, travel over the hum of conversations around Alana and draw her gaze up from the satchel hanging from her shoulder that may or may not contain the pen she is looking for.

When she sees the speaker -- the only man she’s ever known who made her name sound _exotic_ \-- Alana smiles. Unconsciously, perhaps, her shoulders drop from their hunched state, and Alana shifts into a more alert, more comfortable posture. 

Extending a hand, Alana tilts her head slightly and attempts to greet her former professor with the same clear tone he spoke in. One of the many drawbacks of being female, young, and American -- in this profession, and in general -- is that, to her ears, Alana’s pleased answering “Doctor Lecter,” sounds girlish and just a little bit flirtatious. She clears her throat to counteract the effect, but the small smile on Dr. Lecter’s lips indicates that he is more than capable of reading her, and reading her well.

“Such a shame to have to travel across the country to enjoy the pleasure of your company, Alana,” he murmurs, still somehow as audible as a bell tone amidst the clamor around them. “Unless, of course, you are here with someone else...”

“No,” she answers, too quickly to be anything but the truth. “I’m on my own.” She could craft an excuse: _Hard to spin these conferences as interesting or worthwhile_ , _It would be criminal to ask someone you love to clear their schedule only to sit through endless hours of lectures, don’t you agree?_ , but the truth is, Alana doesn’t _have_ anyone -- here or at home. She set an early alarm, went over her suitcase one more time, wrapped herself in a long, forest-colored coat, and boarded the flight from Baltimore to Chicago, Chicago to Madison on her own, the same way she did everything; with a quiet efficiency, an echo of loneliness that she pointedly ignored.

Without a reply, and certainly without a nod to anything Alana kept kept to herself, Hannibal offers his arm. With another brief smile, Alana slips her hand into the fold of his elbow.

\--

Hannibal’s attention to the lecturer is unwavering. He seems to absorb everything the speaker says with the same practiced air he does everything. He must have an exquisite memory -- while Alana scribbles page after page of notes, Hannibal’s hands stay clasped over his left knee. 

“Thank you,” the speaker concludes, stacking his notes on the podium before shuffling offstage. The silence that follows him blossoms into excited chatter from the crowd, discussing the points presented, or perhaps where they might go for lunch. Alana scrambles to finish recording her final thoughts, coming to the edge of the paper just in time. 

As she exhales, preparing to replace the pen’s cap, Hannibal’s hand moves and covers hers. He is warm, and immediately that warmth spreads through her, working better than the heat of bodies in a giant room. She stills completely, cursing the blush she knows is rising in her cheeks. _It isn’t_ him _exactly,_ she assures herself. It’s just that she hasn’t been _touched_ in so long, even casually. The muscles in her hand tense and relax. 

“The mind, as I’m sure you are aware, Doctor Bloom, is infinite metaphor. Rooms with locked doors. A filing cabinet. Even,” he squeezes her hand lightly, making steady eye contact, “a notebook.”

“I’d feel foolish if I forgot the content of a conference I’d paid quite heftily to attend,” Alana feels compelled to answer, easing her hand out from beneath his. She immediately regrets the decision, now forced to busy herself with capping her pen, with closing and storing her notes in the satchel slouched at her feet, fidgeting awkwardly away from Hannibal’s easy warmth.

Having lost her hand as a point of contact, Hannibal now touches her cheek, whisper-light. The shock moves through her like static, and she flinches despite herself. “Forgive me if I overstep our new relationship as colleagues, Alana, but I imagine it has been far too long since you simply _lived_.”

It is a statement, made with no room for questioning. Still, Alana bristles at the assumption, hackles rising as she lets out an offended noise. “I’m afraid you _do_ overstep, Doctor Lecter,” she snaps, ready to rise and storm from the room -- interrupted (of course) by the moderator’s return to the podium, clearing her throat to announce the next speaker. She can’t leave now. Instead of admitting that Hannibal is right, that she can’t even _remember_ a time when she, sober, stopped analyzing and collecting long enough to let a feeling flow through her. Instead, she reluctantly re-settles in her chair and, without giving him the benefit of eye contact, hisses, “I’m afraid you know very little about me.”

Perhaps he agrees, perhaps he is livid. None of it shows on his face, now staring, rapt again, at the speaker making her way across the stage. He laces his fingers together over his knee once more.

\--

The day is a long one, and Alana’s been writing so much that her hand is cramping up and it hurts to move her fingers. She considers, after returning from the restroom, taking another seat. Somewhere separate, at the back of the room. Hannibal’s casual glance to where she stood in the doorway, hesitating, quickly changed her mind. It would have been childish. Almost as bad as stalking from the room and slamming the door. 

Now, at the end of a long lineup of lectures, Hannibal looks as fresh and pressed as always. He turns to her, as though they hadn’t sat in silence through the remainder of the afternoon and with an open-palmed gesture, asks, “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to dinner?”

Alana stares at him for a moment. He either has no idea that he’s offended her or he simply doesn’t care. Irritation rises in her once again, but Alana fights against the childhood urge to throw things and kick her feet. Taking a deep breath, Alana stands, runs her hands over her hopelessly wrinkled skirt, and exhales. “I’m afraid I have other plans,” she says. Something in her wants to snatch back the words as soon as they leave her mouth, but she lets them stand, stubborn.

“Of course,” Dr. Lecter nods, rising as well, unconsciously or not causing Alana to shift her perspective. 

It would be easy, she thinks, to let him guide her through the maze of streets around the hotel, to walk as they did earlier, arm in arm, over chill sidewalks. He would choose some place without English on the menus and murmur something in the server’s ear as they were seated. It would be as easy as she had once found it, listening to his voice carry across classrooms and lecture halls and the muted room of his campus office. 

“But I wouldn’t mind if you joined _me_.” Alana smiles, feeling the weight of his judgment slide off her shoulders and settle somewhere around her ankles. She stands up straighter and puts her hand on his. It feels just as warm.

\--

“Buffalo?”

Hannibal smiles, taking a small sip of water before he answers. “I happen to enjoy sampling rare meats.”

The corners of Alana’s lips lift. “I don’t think you can brand a burger and fries as rare, even if the particulars vary.” She takes a moment to spread her paper napkin across her lap. “You know,” she starts, hesitates. “You look a little out of place, dining this casually.” He looks... dignified, still, somehow. Even now, pressing his hands against his chest and examining his own haberdashery.

“Are you suggesting I’m dressed inappropriately?” 

“Never,” she lies baldly, smiling full. 

She hasn’t forgotten earlier, but his remark feels like a fuzzy discomfort she can easily distract herself from. After all, this place is full of rich colors and smells; the table between them is a rich mahogany, rubbed smooth and shiny from years of use. She watches, actually enjoying their silence, as a drop of condensation slides down her glass.

“What made you choose this establishment, Alana?” Hannibal asks, his voice free from any disdain. His expression is open, and suddenly Alana wishes for his hand on hers again. The warmth stirring low in her stomach is the same. 

She lifts her glass, careful not to slosh the contents too severely. “The beer, naturally.” She grins and takes a healthy swallow. The drink fizzes sour in her mouth, then heavy and light at once inside her. 

“Ah,” Hannibal answers simply, “I prefer wine.” He takes another sip of water, this time catching Alana’s eye and wincing slightly at the absence of flavor. She doesn’t smile, though the joke is clearly just between them. Instead, Alana takes another swallow and swears to herself that she won’t take a single note for the rest of the night.

She’ll _live_. Just to prove she can.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to mage_girl for betaing! Title is from a Rilo Kiley song.


End file.
